Back from the Future
by sxmmy
Summary: Sam and Dean are sent back in time with no memory of how they got there, or why. In order to get back to their own year, they may need the help of two notorious hunters... the 'them' from 2007. The Winchesters are quickly reminded that tampering with the past can have disastrous consequences. ( no slash.)
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **_Back from the Future_

**Summary: **Sam and Dean are sent back in time with no memory of how they got there, or why. In order to get back to their own year, they may need the help of two notorious hunters- _themselves_. The Winchesters are quickly reminded that tampering with the past can have disastrous consequences... ( no slash.)

**Rated****: _T _ **for general language, supernatural horror themes, and violence.

**Disclaimer:** None of this belongs to me, etc, etc.

**A/n****:** So this is a story I've had in mind for a long time, but never got around to writing until now. Anyway, details are loose for right now, so I'll correct anything wrong soon, but yeah... enjoy.

**Update**, 5/7/17: This chapter and the next have been revamped and edited to fit in with details that'll come into play later in the story. :)

* * *

First thing Dean noticed when he woke was the smell.

It was a pungent, spicy scent that burned a little in his lungs, motivated him to push through the fog that clouded his brain. The odor was nothing special— pretty unremarkable, actually. Dean wouldn't have given it a second thought, if not for the recognition he felt as he breathed in— though how he knew it? He couldn't guess. Dean's chest expanded as he breathed in again, released the air through his nose.

_Cinnamon_, came Dean's sluggish realization.

He winced as he tried to move, muscles prickling with the sensation of waking after what felt like a full decade. For a moment Dean stilled, blinking away the bleariness from his eyes so he could at least get a good look at his surroundings, already beginning the search for answers to questions not yet formed.

Dizziness hit him like a ton of bricks, twisting his stomach and causing his head to spin like a top.

Everything was off.

He could sense it. Call it 'supernatural-expert-intuition', call it the feeling you get right before you puke your guts out, call it whatever— but everything felt off. _Wrong_, even, except... well. Except that smell, that stupid smell of cinnamon that he knew belonged somehow. Dean did his best to focus on it, on that feeling of belonging, using it as an anchor to ground him through the disoriented confusion until the dizziness faded.

And then, it finally occurred to Dean why he recognized the smell. _Oh. _

It was Cologne. That douchey old cologne Sam used to wear years back, one of the few items he happened to bring with him after his untimely departure from Stanford; from everything and everyone normal he had left in his life.

Dean always hated that cologne. Not so much because of the actual smell— something he would never admit to Sam— but because of what it represented. Expensive coffee, law books, college, smartass geek-nerds: Sam's life without him. Funny, how much clearer all this crap was in retrospect. The memory fit like a glove.

He used to give Sam so much crap about it, until Sam eventually tossed his whole supply, claiming he did so because he was sick of Dean's whining. _Those were the days. _Dean almost smirked at the thought, but the aches that rippled through his body served as a not-so-gentle reminder to put a pause on the reminiscing.

Time to figure out what the hell was going on.

When his eyes zoned into focus, Dean saw that he was sprawled out on the floor of a shabby motel room. Its rough, fugly-orange carpet dug into his elbows through layers of flannel when Dean propped himself up. There were two queens, side by side with drab maroon sheets strewn in every direction- but other than that, there weren't any striking signs of occupancy. Chipped paint was all that decorated the small, lifeless room; though to the places' credit, the single window by the door _did_ have 'okay' drapes, even if they were a little sun-faded.

It resembled the type of crappy room he and Sam might book for a case, if they had to- the 30 bucks a night, sleazy, take-a-cold-shower-or-two-afterwards type place.

But that didn't make sense... they hadn't _been_ on a case, had they? Dean's brows scrunched together. They. Not just him, _they_.

A new wave of motivation reverberated through Dean at the thought of his brother, gave him a new-found energy and strength that surprised him. The older Winchester forced himself to his feet against the will of his protesting muscles, releasing a heavy, drawn-out grunt.

_Sam_.

Where was Sam?

Dean could've sworn that they'd been together, back in the bunker, but his surrounding atmosphere offered far more questions than answers.

"Sam!?" His voice came out low pitched and groggy from disuse.

No answer came, but thankfully, he didn't have to look far. Dean moved around the second Queen bed where his earlier view had been obscured to find his brother, slumped on the carpet in a ridiculous pose, unconscious. How Dean had been.

Even though he was still weighed down by the persistent feeling that something was very **_wrong_**, the assurance of Sam's presence alleviated most of his anxiety, and Dean found he could swallow away the lump in his throat as he moved to kneel beside Sam's lanky frame.

"Sammy," Dean tried again, voice clearer this time, regaining confidence when his brother began to stir after a minute or two. His hand ghosted over Sam's back in effort to pull him back to reality. "Hey. Rise 'n shine, Sleeping Beauty."

Dean moved his grip to Sam's shoulder as he sat on his heels, watching his brother go through all the phases of regaining consciousness that he had; the flash of pain in his eyes as he tried to move, the croaking voice, the confused drive to fight off the pain and get up anyway.

"Dean, what..." Sam trailed off. He suppressed a wince when Dean caught his wrist in an iron grip and yanked him upward to his feet, probably not sure if he could stand- but Dean remained close by his side to steady him, only letting go when Sam seemed to find his balance.

"...Where the hell are we?" Sam asked, sounding as dazed as Dean felt while he gave the beaten-down room a once over. "Weren't we just..."

"In the bunker, yeah, I'm getting the same weird-o vibes. I swear, I didn't book this piece of crap."

Sam's eyebrows furrowed as he smoothed back ruffled hair, making a sound in the back of his throat suspiciously close to a laugh. "This looks exactly like the piece of crap you'd book."

"Yeah, well. Whatever." Dean's eyes traveled around again, lit with a new spark of resentment. "Point is I didn't."

"I...I can't really remember anything, apart from being at the bunker." Sam's unhelpful comment triggered an irritated look to settle over Dean's features._ Thanks, Captain Obvious._ Dean was about to voice his annoyance, the urge to pick a fight rearing its head, but the retort died on his tongue when he realized he couldn't do much better.

Everything was just... fuzzy. He recalled being at the bunker, with Sam- exhausting every book, google page, and recorded paragraph the Men of Letters had detailing the Mark of Cain. He also remembered Cas, saying he had some sort of idea to help them out. That was all good and swell, but then... _what_?

When he explored his memory, anything and everything 'helpful' was blurred, like trying to remember a dream.

"Maybe we just got wasted," Dean suggested, shrugging- though when he looked back at Sam, his brother looked unconvinced.

"Yeah, maybe. Except this feels nothing like a hangover." he said, shooting down Dean's theory with one blow.

Sam had a solid point. Dean sighed, resigning his childish hope that for once, there was a logical explanation and not some fishy hoodoo-crap going on. Nothing about the achy-ness he felt in his muscles alluded to a hangover—and with Dean's track record, he was qualified to judge. Maybe a little overqualified.

In any case, one would think there would be at least _some _alcoholic evidence lying around if a hangover was to blame, and there wasn't so much as a crumpled beer can anywhere in sight.

Sam began to trace all corners of the room with his eyes; there was a tiny bathroom in the corner opposite the front door, but other than that, they'd seen it all. "You think Cas might've had a hand in this?" he asked after a minute. Dean considered the idea, but that growing pit in his stomach wasn't going anywhere. He still had a bad feeling.

"Hope so." Dean didn't buy for a second it could've been just Cas. The mention of the angel did, however, give him an idea of what to do next. "Take a look outside, find out where the hell we are. I'll give Cas a ring."

To his surprise, Sam didn't contradict him. He just nodded, straightened out the wrinkles from his green flannel and wordlessly made his way towards the door. Dean dug his hands in his pockets and felt for his cellphone, a pang of relief filling him when he caught the familiar lump of it in his front pocket. He fished it out with his index finger, wasted no time in punching in Cas' number. Dean lifted his head in time to see Sam disappear out the door—who muttered something about smelling cinnamon buns— as he waited for a dial tone.

"C'mon Cas," Dean muttered to himself after the first few unanswered rings, free hand balling into a fist as he shifted from one leg to the other. "_Pick_ _up_, dammit."

The ringing stopped a few beats later— but all he could hear at first was the discouraging hum of silence.

Dean mumbled profanities under his breath, was just about to redial, when-

"-Hello?"

He found himself hesitating, because it wasn't _Cas_' voice that met his ears. It was... a _chick's_? For a minute, he was speechless. Dean even pulled the phone back far enough to check if the number he dialed was right.

It was.

"Um, hello?" the woman's voice prodded again, snapping Dean out from his bewildered haze.

"Yeah, uh... Hi there, Ma'am." Dean cleared his throat soundly, working to banish the edge of surprise from his tone. "Hey, I know this might be a... _weird_ question, okay but— this used to be an old friend of mine's number. Mind telling me how long you've had it for?"

"Er, yeah... I'd say about, a year, maybe?"

Stunned into silence again, which seemed to be the reoccurring theme, Dean failed to give a timely response. This lady'd had Cas' digits for a year? A damn _year_? How was that even remotely possible?

"-_Hello_?" Static clung to the disembodied voice.

Dean ended the call without further explanation, mentally rereading the number back to himself again and again until he was _absolutely_ _sure, _200%, that it had been right the first time. Nothing was adding up, but even so, it felt like the answer was staring him right in the friggin' face.

Like an idiot, he still wasn't seeing it.

Replacing the phone in the front pocket of his jeans beside the Impala keys, Dean slipped out the door that Sam had vanished through minutes before, the uneasiness still strong in his gut. Sam, hopefully, had better luck.

Outside consisted of a very average-looking parking lot. There might've been three or four cars down the length of the motel, but for the most part, the lot was empty. It was late afternoon, judging by the muted-sky tones and the nearby streetlamps already buzzing with life. Dean found himself stuffing his hands into his pockets, the unexpected chill sending a wave of goosebumps shuddering down his back.

Fortunately, he didn't have to go too far in search of Sam, who was leaning against the wall about ten feet away beside a bin of poorly stacked newspapers. He had one of them in his hands, but judging by the intense way he was glaring and the small frown on his mouth, Sam didn't like what it said.

"I'd loosen up if I were you," Dean said as he approached. "That newspaper might press charges."

All right, not his most defining moment of wit, but even so it should have gotten something out of Sam, who simply continued to stare holes into the paper— eyebrows lowered so far they half-masked his eyes.

"I called Cas." Dean made sure he was louder this time. "Get this, some chick answered, said she's had the number for a year."

No response.

Dean's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head a fraction to the side, gauging Sam's nonexistent reaction.

"A year, Sam."

"I think this..." -Sam held the paper out to where Dean could easily snatch it- "...does a good job of explaining."

Dean subjected Sam to his pointed look a moment longer before he relented, hands emerging from the shelter of his pockets to accept the newspaper. The elder brother shifted focus, turning his eyes downward as instructed.

A sound escaped Dean, something close to an indignant 'huff'. He was still at a loss.

"Global Warming, Sam? What am I supposed to be-"

"Look at the date."

A moment later, Dean finally came across what Sam had been staring at so intently- and he was pretty sure he felt his stomach drop at the numbing realization.

"What- we're in freaking **_2007_**?" he half yelled, half growled; squinting hard at the numbers in case he was just seeing things. No matter how hard he looked, the printed date of _April 26__th__, 2007 _didn't change.

"We technically haven't even met Cas yet." Sam said, catching Dean's unhinged eyes when they rose to look at him from the paper.

"So, someone or...something just zippy-zapped us back in time." Dean said aloud, tone still a little disbelieving, even if it wasn't his first encounter with time travel. "And we don't have the Angel mojo to get us back, oh that's just fan-friggin'-tastic."

Though really, if Dean was honest with himself, it wouldn't matter. Even if by some chance future-Cas knew where they were, it wasn't as if he could do anything about it. The last time they'd used their angel to whisk them back in time, the effort nearly killed the guy, and that was when he was all up to snuff. No... there was no way in heaven or hell Cas could muster enough juice to get them anywhere_. _Not when he was running on some other angel's fumes.

For a moment, a familiar, troubled look fitted over Sam's face, and Dean felt a twinge of discomfort when he followed his brother's eyeline all the way down to his arm... right where, beneath the fabric of his worn jacket and layers of flannel, the Mark was etched into his skin.

He could tell Sam wasn't planning on saying anything; the foreboding hesitance was easy to pick up on. Sam knew better than to bring it up, and Dean in turn knew better than to draw attention to it— but unease drove him to answer the tentative question hanging in the air anyways.

There was already enough tension between the two of them as it was, and Dean figured at least this would be one less topic for them to dance around.

"It's still there, Sam." He rested a hand gingerly on top of the sleeve, though he did his best to remain void of expression.

Dean didn't even have to look in order to know. The mark had gravitated into something he could sense at all times, night and day, an almost a sewn-in part of him. A lurking evil that would _never_ stop wrestling for control while it lived inside him; not until it won. He would've known, if it was gone. He would've known if that crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders, if the deep-seeded fear that woke when Dean was close enough to hear Sam breathe was gone. He would've known.

"Yeah." Sam murmured simply in response, averting his eyes, as if ashamed Dean had caught on to his unspoken thoughts.

Silence blanketed the small space of sidewalk between them, and Dean found himself making eye contact with the curved tips of his shoes- neither one of them sure of how to break it.

"Topeka, huh." Dean made an effort at least, pretending not to notice the awkwardness as he gestured to the glowing "Super 8 Topeka Motel" billboard. "So... we just need to figure out how to bungee ourselves back."

"We could try praying to Cas," Sam suggested softly, and Dean felt a bit more at ease with the Mark out of the spotlight. "I mean, if we don't-"

"You said it yourself, Sam, he doesn't even know us yet. We'll sound like the million other desperate bastards nagging in his ear, wanting a divine solution to their problems." His cynicism was openly displayed this time, and Dean didn't miss the flash of annoyance in Sam's eyes at the rebuttal. It was sort of relieving, honestly, to see something there other than quiet sadness. Other than the darkness that surfaced whenever the Mark was mentioned, that century-old weariness a guy his age just shouldn't have.

Annoyed Sam was good. Annoyed Sam, Dean knew how to handle.

"So you're saying we're stuck here."

"I'm saying," Dean placated, "that we can't rely on him. We need to Doctor-Who ourselves back on our own, because real-time Cas is out of the cards."

Sam released one of his signature sighs, the part-irritated, part-relenting one he usually did when Dean was right about something, resting his head back against the wall of their supposed motel room.

"It's always for a reason, right?" he murmured suddenly, and Dean looked up. There was a thoughtful crease on Sam's forehead, a window through which the spinning wheels in his brain could be seen.

"What is?" Dean shifted to lean on the wall next to Sam, close enough so that their shoulders brushed together. He knew the look on Sam's face, the one that meant a revelation was on the tip of his tongue. Oftentimes, all Dean needed to do was ask the right questions to help pry it out.

"Time travel. Whenever we've been sent back in time, it's always been for a reason. I mean... we were always meant to do something or accomplish a task before we were sent back, right?"

When Dean leafed through all memories of time-travel, he found Sam's statement was somewhat true. Whether it be an angel who wanted to teach him a lesson, or the both of them willingly going back in time to retrieve something- like the Phoenix ashes- there was always a point to it. Exceptions to the generalization were close to none, but a few remained.

"What about the time with Eliot Ness?" Dean asked, eyebrows arching. "That wasn't a planned-out thing."

"Yeah," Sam allowed, "but in a kind of vague way, you still had an objective. And getting the job done got you home."

"Yeah... okay, I guess. What are you getting at, Sherlock?"

"Maybe we're here for a reason, I mean... maybe there's something here we need to do." A light seemed to spark in Sam's eyes when he got going, the first real evidence of hope Dean had detected from either of them, so he did his best to indulge his brother— though he was still skeptical. "And if that's true, maybe we should be trying to figure out what that is, instead of looking for some 'portal' to send us home."

Dean considered this a moment in silence, eyes lowering. He hesitated.

"Let's just say for a second that what you're cooking up is true," he began a moment later, "how would we figure that out, if we can't remember how we got here?"

Sam shrugged, hands burrowing in his own jacket pockets as the chilly breeze returned to engulf the two of them.

"I don't know, maybe we just... do what we always do. Look for a case." Sam, noticing the disbelief painted on his brother's face, sped up a little before Dean could interrupt his spiel. "There has to be one here, if this is where we ended up. I mean, Kansas, Dean? Could that really be a coincidence?"

Dean did his best not to flinch. Kansas, the state they somehow managed to end up in. Topeka was about a three-hour drive from Lebanon, if Dean's memory served him right, and a thirty-minute drive from Lawrence. From the house that started it all, that night in 1983.

"Man, I don't know." Dean sighed, dragging a hand over his face and rubbing his temples. "Okay, look. I say we book a place, just to get our ducks all in a row. Maybe we'll remember something useful. If not, we go ahead with your plan."

This seemed to satisfy Sam, who nodded his approval, still allowing Dean to assert control over the situation. It brought a sneaking suspicion to life, and for a moment, that suspicion shone in Dean's eyes before he blinked it away a half-second later.

"Yeah, okay."

"Good." Dean said, pushing back from the wall. "C'mon, let's see if this place has a vacancy."

He began making his way toward the opposite end of the parking lot, in the direction of the front desk, only slowing when he didn't hear Sam trailing behind him.

"You coming?"

"Dean...you gotta take a look at this."

"What now?" Dean said with a hint of irritation, not exactly in the mood for any other weird-ass things they couldn't explain. There were too many questions already, a hell of a lot more than he was comfortable with, and no answers. But even so... Dean turned. He followed Sam's line of sight, who was facing the parked vehicles down the lot.

At first, nothing jumped out at him as 'out of the ordinary'. There was a rusty old Pinto, a Ford, and...

... an _Impala_?

"Please tell me this day isn't about to get any more bizarre." Dean muttered grouchily. He advanced on the steely black car, Sam right on his tail.

What he saw… well, it wasn't what he wanted to see. Aside from the obvious, there were small, intricate characteristics about this Impala that Dean instantly recognized. Their familiarity struck him in the same way Sam's old cologne had. In fact, they set him on edge- because they weren't... current. For example, a few of the scratches and dents he remembered upon inspection were ones he'd already fixed on Baby years ago.

"No friggin' way." Dean subconsciously reached for the keys he still had stowed away in his jeans.

"Dean..." Sam's voice sounded behind him like a warning, but Dean put no effort into a response as he lifted the correct key up to the driver's door, biting the inside of his cheek before slipping it in. And _twisting_ it.

The car unlocked.

Dammit.

"Well," Dean said numbly. "Looks like we're here on a job. The 'us' from 2007."

Dean's surprise was mirrored in Sam's eyes when he turned to meet them, and it was all so ridiculously ludicrous that he had to laugh. The sound was dry, one that vibrated in his throat and lungs humorlessly.

"Hey, Sammy, you think the universe would explode if we paid ourselves a visit?"

* * *

**A/n****: **Thanks for reading! Drop a review to let me know what you think. Those of you who do, bless your heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **_Back from the Future_

**Summary: **Sam and Dean are sent back in time with no memory of how they got there, or why. In order to get back to their own year, they may need the help of two notorious hunters... the 'them' from 2007. The Winchesters are quickly reminded that tampering with the past can have disastrous consequences. ( no slash.)

**Rated****: _T_ **for general language, supernatural horror themes, violence.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this, etc, etc.

**A/n****:** An enormous thank you to _Iamsam1013_, _ANONYMOUS FAN_, _Aziza Maye_, _HilaNamerchuk_, _SPN Girl 14_, _LilyBolt_, _Kat_, _DearHart_ and a few _guests _for your reviews and support! Y'all are wonderful, so here's Chapter 2. I have a sneaking suspicion that this is one of those stories that I'll have to go back and edit a lot haha. If I edit anything major, however, I'll alert you.

Anyways, Enjoy~

* * *

Sam was incredulous. Shock from the revelation was evident in his wide eyes, now mingling with a new layer of disbelief—as if Dean had sprouted a new head. He braced himself for inevitable balking.

"Isn't there... I don't know, some sort of rule about that?"

Dean scoffed dismissively, more in response to his brother's tone than the question itself.

"Well I haven't consulted my trusty time-travel handbook yet, but since when have we," he gestured between them, "_ever_ given a crap about the rules?" Without waiting for an answer, the elder Winchester yanked open the Impala's door in a wide swing. "Not your best argument, Sammy."

Turning away from Sam, Dean bent at the waist to peer inside the vehicle, gaze flitting over the worn interior, scouring it for anything useful the earlier version of them might've abandoned.

He was instantly assaulted by the stench of leftover takeout.

Dean's features contorted in blatant disgust when he spotted the culprit: a grease-stained box of cheap onion burgers, sitting in the crook of space between the passenger seat and the dashboard. With the overwhelming punch the stink packed, Dean figured it must've been there for eight hours at least.

"That... that's just wrong," he muttered indignantly under his breath, tempted to blame Sam because the food was on _his_ side of the car- but managed to resist. He did, however, pointedly ignore Sam's curious hum as he continued the search at the expense of his lungs.

Secretly, though... underneath his outward detest, it was comforting, feeling the textured leather when he rested a hand on the driver's seat. Even the- quite frankly, _unholy_\- stench of the car. The familiarity of it all was grounding in a way that, in the face of so many unanswered questions, was exactly what he needed. Dean briefly allowed himself to linger in the fleeting sense of stability, leaning further inside as his gaze poured over the backseat.

There wasn't much. Aside from a few discarded wrappers, some empty beer bottles, and another Daily Newspaper sprawled out atop the glove compartment- there wasn't much to confiscate. _Not like we really had anything worth a damn back then, anyway_, Dean thought, feather-light nostalgia burrowing a home in his chest as his hard-set expression softened. Not for the first time that day, he felt a small longing for the simpler times; before demons, archangels, the devil, the apocalypse, the mark— before all of it. It was just them, baby, and the family business back then— blissfully unaware of the real monsters within and around them.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was a little louder this time, coaxing him out of his thoughts. Dean allowed himself a few final looks, in the end deciding to snatch up the newspaper, which was probably useless. But then again, it might give them a clue about what their past selves were up to in Kansas, because hell if he could remember.

"Yeah... nada." Dean tossed a look over his shoulder back at Sam. "Check the back, will you?"

It wasn't that he expected Sam to refuse, but even so, Dean was taken off guard at the absence of backtalk. Sam sighed and nodded, clearly not satisfied with the idea of messing with the timestream crap, but otherwise quiet when he started toward the trunk of the Impala. Dean's eyes narrowed at him though the windows until Sam's bedraggled head of hair disappeared around the back of the car.

The older Winchester concluded that something was off base with his brother; then again, this whole friggin' situation had his suspicions running high, and Dean couldn't pinpoint any concrete reason for Sam's odd behavior. There was the possibility he could be overthinking it... always the chance he was making a hell of a fuss over nothing, which is what Sam would say, if he mentioned anything.

The corners of Dean's mouth tugged down. In his experience, if something felt bad, off, or otherwise anywhere in the wheelhouse of '_wrong_'- it usually was. Especially when it came to his brother.

Paper in hand, he maneuvered himself out of the car, throwing the door shut in a lazy swing before joining Sam at the back.

Aside from the few weapons Dean recognized from their present-day Impala— and there were only a few that survived the years— the rest were ones they'd either gotten rid of, lost, or broken at some point along the way. One knife, strung up beneath the lifted hood to Dean's left, he vaguely remembered losing on a vamp hunt back in Missouri. He extended a hand outward, tracing his index finger gingerly along the curve of the blade.

"No demon knife," Sam observed aloud. "But, I mean... guns, salt, matches, all here. Whatever we were hunting, we're not hunting it now."

Dean grunted his agreement. They were a little early to the party, which, in this case, was definitely a good thing. First bit of luck they'd had in a while. Mid scan, his face brightened when another friendly sight caught his eye.

"Hey, look." Dean pointed to a dark copper pistol, a few items over from the knife, held in place by a black threaded strap. It was one of the many weapons that Bobby donated to them, back when he and Sam were only teens. That handgun used to be one of his personal favorites. Memories of its strong kick and drawback replayed in his head, of the distinct feel and weight of it in his hands- and Dean couldn't help but look at it as he would an old friend.

"Dude, you broke that one," he said, though his voice was less accusing than playful.

"Yeah, saving your ass," Sam retorted dryly. Dean appraised him with a look of offense as he pulled the trunk closed, rickety sound of impact echoing in the background as it clicked into place and locked again.

"Touchy, touchy." There wasn't as much of a bite in Dean's tone as he would've liked. If his general weariness was to blame for his lack of poison, or if it was the creeping sensation of _dread _he felt stir in his gut every time he knew something was up with Sam- it was a toss-up.

Sam only turned away so his profile was visible in the dimming light, throwing a mildly bitchy glance to the street Dean knew was meant for him, lips thinly pursed. Yet instead of picking a fight— which he could have done easily, Dean even half expected him to— Sam was all business when he revived the conversation. Which... in a lot of ways, was worse.

"What do you got?"

The grainy sheets of the newspaper in Dean's hand became noticeable when mentioned, as if plucked back into existence by the spoken word. "Yeah, yeah... hold up," he said, shifting his attention from his brother to the fine print. Dean let his suspicions take a backseat as he searched for anything to attack the piling questions.

For a while his expression, though concentrated, remained blank- nothing really popping out to him as justifiable 'news of the weird', at least... not until a thick ribbon of black sharpie ink caught his eye.

So, Sam was right. There was something going down there.

"Hey," Dean muttered aloud, the strenuous effort of reading small print in dim light causing his eyes to pulse, but he continued. "I think I just found our job."

Sam's indignant expression faltered. Apparently, he wasn't pissed enough to deny his curiosity.

"What?" He craned his neck to get a better look at the paper in his brother's hands, one that seemed identical to the first one, which Sam still held— except for the helpful indicators penned inside.

"Check this out," Dean nodded down at the circled headline, making room for Sam at his side so he could follow along.

"We have a vic. Name's _Peter_ _Moroe_, previously reported missing high school student... uh... 17, his body was found yesterday morning at Topeka's Rochester Cemetery, Wednesday, April 25th." Dean felt his brother's gaze burn into him toward the end, though when he peered up to catch him in the act, Sam had looked away. He frowned, lowering the paper.

"Dude, what is up with you?" Dean asked finally, thinking maybe he'd get lucky for once, and his brother would just give him a straight answer.

Sam blinked in surprise.

"Nothing," he replied quickly, giving a careless shrug of his shoulders- which Dean almost rolled his eyes at. Did he forget who he was talking to? Yeah, sure, trying to convince anyone else, Sam would've gotten off without a hitch. But Dean knew Sam a lot better than that. Dean could see through all Sam's layers of deflection, just like Sam could see through his.

Sam's jaw tightened sometime after he figured Dean wasn't buying it, that he was waiting for something more substantial.

"Look... it's just...weird, is all," Sam said, and this time Dean could hear his irritation, subtly interfering the flow of his words. "But I'm fine, Dean. Now if you're satisfied, can we just figure out this case and get the hell home?"

Dean scrutinized the other a moment longer, a bit reluctant to give up the chase. He was _not _satisfied, having gotten none of the resolve he'd been shooting for. But what else was there to do? Sam was, for the moment, concrete; he wouldn't budge. Not yet, anyway.

"Okay, fine," Dean relented, "Whatever." His tone implied that it was definitely _not _the end of the conversation.

"They, or... '**_we_**', can't be too far off." Sam pointed out, again directing their focus back to business, and this time Dean allowed it. No matter how he ached for an easy fix, he wouldn't get anything out of Sam just by asking. Nothing could be that simple with them.

Dean released a long sigh before setting a hand on the Impala's smooth finish, absently caressing her curves. His baby was _his_ _baby_, regardless of the friggin' year.

"You're right. Baby's here, so we must be somewhere close," Dean agreed. "And if I know us at all, this place won't be too far from Rochester Cemetery. I say we go back to the room, wait for past 'us' to get back, and duke it out then."

When Dean turned to Sam for confirmation, the younger nodded.

"Yeah... okay."

"Good. Now let's get the hell out of this parking lot, I'm a friggin' popsicle."

* * *

_\- Topeka, Kansas - 2007 -_

"Will that be all for you guys?"

Dean gladly used the waitress' interruption as an excuse to ignore his brother's searching stare.

"Actually, mind getting us a couple of beers?" He asked with a flirtatious grin, knowing that with Sam acting the way he was, Dean would probably need them both.

Their server, a long-legged brunette Dean would place somewhere in her mid-twenties, nodded with a smile as she scribbled on a small notepad. "You got it."

Even though he wasn't looking, the elder Winchester could practically _feel _the younger scrutinizing every move he made.

He felt a slight twist of irritation at the thought.

"Thanks, uh..." Dean's gaze dropped to the nametag on the girl's fitted Denny's polo, squinting in order to read the print. "-_Leah_."

When she left, Dean's eyes trailed after her swaying frame until she disappeared behind the doors to the kitchens- not with lust, like one might expect from someone like him, but with regret. That marked one less diversion standing between him and the soul-bearing conversation Sam wanted to have. Now, the only thing he could use to avoid talking was the gigantic burger Leah had abandoned on the table for his enjoyment: a double-paddy Western Style drizzled with steamy steak-sauce and extra onions... which looked less than appetizing.

Dean decided to chance a look at Sam, who was aimlessly prodding at his own food; a tasteless assortment of greens that Dean decided didn't count as food at all.

Neither of them found any words.

Silence stretched long and just a bit too thin, and Dean's desire to break it warred with the one that willed it to last.

There was no denying the tension that'd built between him and his brother. Dean could sense it every time their eyes met, one always hiding something while the other probed to find out what. An endless game of cat and mouse that, no matter how long they played for or how many times they swapped roles, produced no winners.

Dean could blame it on a lot of things. Being stuck in the car with Sam nine hours without stops that day, for instance—or their decision to take a job in Kansas in the first place, where the voting hadn't exactly been unanimous. But at the core of it all, Dean could run in a lot of circles explaining away questions he already knew the answers to, if only to take the edge off.

The truth was, long road trips weren't to blame. Neither was drafting Sam into taking the Tokpeka job with him. Sam had suffered that and worse already; long drives and occasional bossiness weren't new obstacles between them.

No, their disconnect started a few days ago, all the way back at that warehouse in Joliet, Illinois— after their run in with the resident Djinn. When he confessed that he questioned if hunting was really worth the hardship they reaped, and admitted to Sam that, for a moment, he'd actually entertained the idea of remaining in the fantasy created for him by that wish-granting sonofabitch. One that could easily have lasted a lifetime.

From then on... he and Sam had done their best to slip back into their normal routine. But apparently, with their uneasy, noiseless dinner as live proof, they were doing a bang up job of it.

It started with little things. Just a tentative glance here, a 'whatever, forget it' there- and yeah, all right, a lot of it was his fault. That last job... the Djinn causing his unspoken wish to materialize into reality, or... something close to it anyway, it messed with his head.

Living moments that could never be real with loved ones who would never come back? It pulled into perspective how crappy and utterly messed up his life really was, yanked a vast amount of pain he had caged in his heart all the way up to the surface, a hurt he couldn't pretend away.

Above everything, it showed Dean how wrong it all was.

From losing their Mom to Sam's freakish 'premonitions', to his Dad's... decision_, _inevitably ending with those haunting words. The ones that echoed inside his scull every night before sleep even had a chance to find him. His father's command, followed by the sickening warning that never failed to make his very skin crawl, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself he wouldn't need them.

_Save him_, and if you can't, you're gonna have to _kill him. _

What that short-lived delusion the Djinn gave him was, in the turbulence of their day to day life, was **anesthesia**. That's why he wanted so badly to stay. When Dean finally brought himself back to his own reality, the terrible weight of everything he carried on his shoulders crashed back down all at once. After having had that brief taste of weightlessness, all that responsibility and guilt and general _crap_ he hauled around felt heavier than it ever had before.

So yeah. Instead of ironing out whatever issues that had arisen early on, it was him and not Sam that chose to let it all fester like an unattended wound. Both brothers were aware it would need to be addressed, or the damage might become irreparable. Problem was Sam wanted to do that _now_, or soon, whereas Dean would rather go on ignoring it— preferably with the help of liquor burning a fiery trail down his throat.

In the end, it was Sam who overcame the silence. Fortunately for Dean, the younger didn't talk to him like he was Dean's psychiatrist, which was more than he expected.

"So uh... did he say anything else?"

'He', of course, referring to the old hunter contact of their Dad's, Todd Neuman, who was responsible for bringing them the Topeka case to begin with. Back in the day, Neuman and John had gone on a few hunts together, saved each other's skin a couple times. They never consistently kept in touch, but exchanged contact info before parting ways. Long story short, Todd gave Dean's cell a ring yesterday after trying John's. That's when he and Sam were presented with the job opportunity in Kansas. A string of kids had gone missing, two in the past week and a half, all of which were discovered dead, and always with some sort of link to the infamous Rochester Cemetery.

Sam was reluctant: big surprise there.

Or at least, he wanted to talk over some 'legitimate concerns' beforehand, as he put it— namely the identity of the caller, Neuman, whom they knew nothing of. Dean had already promised their assistance, pulling the 'We've checked out stuff for a _lot_ less, Sam,' card, anxious to do something other than twiddle his thumbs and wallow in the strange vibe of a relationship theirs had morphed into.

Maybe that was how he viewed the work; as much of a diversion as Leah over there, the waitress who was now giving coffee refills to a pair of customers in the adjacent booth. Dean pushed the thought away, disgusted at himself.

Despite his stomach shrinking back in protest, he reached for the greasy mess in front of him and forced himself to take a good-sized bite— determined to avoid prodding questions about a loss of appetite.

"No," came the delayed response, Dean's voice muffled through a mouth-full of burger. "Just what you heard. Two deaths, plus the new guy they found yesterday. All late teens, all male, all found near the Rochester Cemetery."

For a moment Sam's eyes dawned a thoughtful glow, but then cleared as he rested both elbows on the table next to his platter of... whatever kind rabbit food it was. "You think something at the Cemetery is wasting them?" He was keeping the conversation neatly centered on the job, something Dean found he appreciated, considering it was one his brother had objected to in the first place. At least he was getting on board with it and not being an A-class bitch.

"That's what it looks like." Dean agreed, all but cringing at the sickening twist in his gut as he made himself swallow. He dropped the burger back on its dish, finally listening to his body's misgivings. Sam seemed to share his lack of hunger, judging by the neglected salad at his arm.

Taking the initiative, Dean pushed both plates to the side. "I say we go back to the room, pop open a six pack, research and pony up. It's about time we gave that cemetery a good once-over."

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it, because all he did was nod.

"Hey, Sweetheart," Dean called over his brother's shoulder after spotting their server a few tables behind them, easily fishing her attention. He flashed a winning smile. "Scratch the beers, we'll just take the check."

* * *

_\- Topeka, Kansas - 2007 - _

It was well past sunset by the time they arrived back at the hotel. Night already blanketed the atmosphere, the only light to be found coming from streetlamps, buildings and the headlights of cars whizzing down the street. Denny's was about a 15-minute walk away from the Super 8 Topeka Motel, so the return trip wasn't unbearable. Normally Dean would've just driven baby, but after a nine-hour trip behind the wheel, he and Sam had both been eager to stretch their aching muscles.

A mile walk seemed nice at the time, but he couldn't help but regret that decision at present, with how much the temperature friggin' dropped since then. Even with all the layers he wore, the cold still managed to burrow through. Thankfully though, standing outside their room door beside the nearly-emptied parking lot, Dean knew heating wouldn't be a long-lasting issue.

Curling stiff fingers into his jacket pocket, Dean's brow creased when he felt nothing.

"Hey, I think I gave you the uh-"

"I got it." Sam appeared behind his left shoulder, a silver card pinched between his fingers. The weariness clinging to his voice was practically palpable. _Maybe we'll just sleep it off tonight, _Dean mused to himself, reluctantly releasing his expectations of touring Rochester. They'd probably be better off with more than three hours of sleep under their belts, anyway. The jittering breeze ruffled Sam's hair when he moved to unlock the door, and Dean inched back to allow him a bit more space.

But for a reason unknown to the older Winchester, Sam halted mid-swipe.

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fending off the surrounding chill as best he could, until his little brother's pause lasted longer than he was willing to wait.

"Dude, just open the damn-"

"...Dean," the sober, deliberate warning in Sam's tone was what stopped him cold. He felt a subtle shiver run down his spine that, for the first time that night, had nothing to do with the weather.

"What is it, Sammy?"

"Look," Sam guided Dean's eyes to the apparent problem. He didn't sound tired now. "Did you put this up?"

Dean didn't answer at first, only reached out to finger the sheet of plastic hanging over the handle on the door.

_Do Not Disturb_.

Dean's eyes narrowed into slits as he shook his head for 'no'. His right hand instinctively reached down for the waistband of his jeans, where a hidden pistol lay ready and loaded. All he needed to do was switch the safety off.

Lifting his gaze to meet Sam's, who dipped his head in silent acknowledgement, Dean nodded toward the door.

'_Open it_', he mouthed with practiced restraint, edging his gun from its make-shift holster until he caught the gleaming metal under lamp-light in his peripheral. Sam did exactly as he was told, again coaxing in the key card- this time pushing in on the door when the circular light flashed green for access.

But nothing, _nothing _could have prepared him for what lay inside.

The large door swung inward to reveal two intruders; two men_. _

One of them, the shorter of the two, was sitting on the twin bed closest to the door, both hands already raised— looking entirely unimpressed, given Dean had just stormed into the room with a raised firearm. The other, the one that far surpassed the first in height, was sitting at the foot of the opposite twin bed. The electronic glow of what seemed to be Sam's computer cast a mixture of light and shadows over his face, which also lacked the alarm of one being caught red handed.

No... the expressions these intruders wore and the shock Dean anticipated were on different ends of the spectrum, but that was hardly the most bizarre aspect of what lay before him.

They looked strikingly familiar.

The only thing Dean could think of comparing it to would be him and Sam, staring into a mirror. It was honest, uncanny, damn friggin' scary resemblance.

Sam-lookalike, the one farthest away, ached with a pounding familiarity in Dean; the distinct curves of his face, the lanky height and long limbs... granted, he looked older than Sam. But still— from the long, chestnut brown hair to those deep hazel eyes that Dean could never forget the sight of— it was almost a perfect match.

The Dean-lookalike started to shift, causing him to round on the guy with the tip of his gun aimed at his head.

"Whoa, easy!" The stranger shouted authoritatively, arms lifting a fraction higher in surrender.

In his voice.

_His _voice_. _Maybe a few octaves lower, but unmistakably his. And the rest of the guy's face, too, it was definitely _him_\- down to every last imperfection, though somehow again, much older... his eyes much darker, as if he had long ago seen everything and found meaning in nothing.

Dean's incredulous gaze shifted from the Sam-lookalike to the Dean-lookalike, and then finally, to Sam- whose expression mirrored his own bewilderment.

"Son of a_ bitch_."

* * *

**A/n: **Thanks for reading! Drop a review, make a writer's day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **_Back from the Future_

**Summary: **Sam and Dean are sent back in time with no memory of how they got there, or why. In order to get back to their own year, they may need the help of two notorious hunters... the 'them' from 2007. The Winchesters are quickly reminded that tampering with the past can have disastrous consequences. ( no slash.)

**Rated****: _T_ **for general language, supernatural horror themes, violence.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of this, etc, etc.

**Long as crap A/n****:** *Walks up like Sherlock after 2 years of being dead* So... Hi?

First off, let me apologize for the unforgiveable lateness of this. (I won't go into the details of why it took me 5-ever, but it was a good reason.) ANYWAY! I've got a new computer (Wohoo!) As of now, I fully intend to finish this story- it's not entirely finished, but I have a good idea of where I want it to go. So for those of you who can find it in your hearts to forgive me, and want to keep going, here's the next installment. And _holy crap. _I hope no one gets lost in all the Future/past Sam/Dean-ness. Shoutout to the few people who foresaw that problem- you were smarter than me, haha. I did use 'Sammy' a lot for the 2007-Sam, so credit to you!

Thank you A MILLION to you lovely, amazing people for your feedback and support: **Brittles**, **rlfremeau**, **LeeMarieJack**, **anonymouse**, **CallMeAnonymous9**, **hellraven**-**ovo**, **miXiZ**, **DearHart, Enhell**, **LinktoTwilight**, **lovely21**, **Bookaholic27**, **LilyBolt**, **Hello**, **Alex**, **Wonderfull** **Dreams**, and a few **guests, **and every reader.(Guests, sign in to your ff accounts so I can love you.) 100% this update would never have happened without your guys' reviews and support, so this is dedicated to y'all.

Changed/altered things worth noting: This is something I recently changed! The Future Sam and Dean (From season 10) are from the September/December of 2014, _not_ 2015\. You have been notified.

* * *

Uneasy silence descended over the motel.

Sam stood by the door as its own weight pulled it shut, unmoving, young face pale with shock. Dean wasn't sure just what about that sight caused him to ache.

Maybe it was his stupid hair, still in that awkward in-between stage of not being long but not being short, either. Could've been the army-green jacket and all the memories it triggered. Possibly the alarm in Sam's eyes was to blame—but more likely, it was the innocence in them. Innocence that wouldn't survive the test of time, he noted grimly.

Dean broke eye contact at length, turning to regard his own doppelganger warily.

He wrinkled his nose at the gun. "You gonna keep that thing pointed at me all night?"

"Dean—" Sam, his Sam, stopped when both Deans turned to look at once. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he shifted to scratch the back of his neck. "That's… God, okay."

"Believe me, I know the feeling," Dean remarked, unable to keep the wry amusement from bleeding into his tone.

When he received a quizzical look from Sam, it occurred to Dean he never actually talked about the trip to the future that Zachariah, universal dick with wings, sent him on. Huh. In the midst of angels, demons, and the whole damn apocalypse, it must've slipped his mind—not that he was desperate to talk about the memory.

Even though it wasn't (and would never be) a reality, the older Winchester knew he'd never forget the stench of blood and rotting flesh, the sights of rubble and pure devastation throughout every town and city he set foot in. Maybe most memorable of all, staring into the eyes of his future self and seeing a complete stranger. Dean swallowed hard, trying not to think about whether the Dean Winchester he faced now would feel the same when looking at him_. _

He forced a grin, acting as if a gun wasn't being he held to his head. "Do we need nicknames? T-shirts?"

Sam shot him a look of disbelief. "Dude, seriously?"

"What? You could be Sam 1, and he could be Sam 2. Or Sammy."

"It's _Sam_," Interrupted the only voice Dean hadn't heard yet, causing the older pair of Winchesters to turn. The kid was apparently over being tongue-tied, moving from behind his brother so that they stood side-by-side. Young Sam tilted his head towards 2007-Dean in a brief gesture. "He's the only one who gets to call me that."

Dean smirked a little. _Some things don't change._ "Damn right."

That smirk quickly disappeared when he noticed that Sammy had pulled out a knife from—_somewhere_—its metal gleaming in the lowlight.

"Oh, come on!" he sighed, turning to give the Sam from his own time an exasperated look. "What did we have, trust issues?"

Sam snorted. "Yeah, imagine that."

Young-Dean cocked the gun, causing sound to echo off the motel's chipped walls and turning all eyes back on him. "Hey! Both of you can shut up."

One of Dean's classic moves. Asserting control over situations while having no clue what the hell he was dealing with; trying making sense of things far beyond his realm of comprehension by squeezing them down to a size that would fit in his head. Little did people know that, Dean would stand up and take charge, sure—but most the time, he had no idea what he was playing at.

"OK," 2007-Dean continued, "this is the way it's gonna go. I'll ask the questions, you answer them. We clear?"

Dean let all would-be humor drain from his hardened features. He didn't exactly have a shining record of being cooperative with people he didn't like. "Crystal."

His past self's eyes shifted to Sam, and then back to Dean. "How about we start with _who the hell are you_? And maybe explain the resemblance, while you're at it."

The future pair of Winchesters exchanged a glance. There was a measure of uncertainty in Sam's hazel eyes, reminding Dean of his reservations about revealing their identities. He still doubted it was the right thing to do. Well, maybe they'd be breaking time travel common law, maybe they wouldn't— but Dean had already made up his mind.

Sam, sensing his brother's resolve, released a long sigh of resignation. He turned back to the younger Dean, who still held them at gunpoint. "You might want to sit down for this, Hasselhoff."

"Why is he Hasselh— can't he be 'freckles' or something?"

Sam ignored the comment, and continued.

"Look, I know this is going to be hard to believe. Trust me, I do." Sam's hands raised, not in surrender, but placatingly. Trying to soften the blow. Dean had seen him make that same motion thousands of times, when explaining the truth about the supernatural to people who were victimized by it in some way. "But we're not shifters. We're not ghosts, either, or demons, or leviathan."

"_Leviathan?_" Young-Sam asked, brows pulling together in confusion.

"Oh you'll see," Dean promised, choosing not to acknowledge the elder Sam's glare. "Give it a couple years."

Nasty sons of bitches.

"—_Point_ _is_, we're not creatures. We're—" Sam tried to speak over his brother, but Dean was losing patience by the second, and it wasn't like he had a lot to begin with. He was going to rip the band aid off.

"Dean Winchester. Born January 24th, 1979," he interrupted. "Samuel Winchester, born May 3rd, 1983. Working the family business. You've been tracking down what iced our mom in November of 1983, and hell, you're getting close."

Dean turned to look at the younger version of his brother. "You should be having freaky voodoo visions."

Sam flinched in his peripheral vision, but his voice was steady when he added— "We're you. Sam and Dean Winchester, from 2014."

And the penny dropped.

Young Sam looked as if he was going to create a permanent wrinkle of in his forehead, his jaw loose, mouth slightly open. It was similar to the expression Dean had seen outside the motel when _his _Sam began making deductions, meaning that the wheels in his head were spinning; he was taking the facts and tying them together, trying to see the big picture. Observing. It was the open-mindedness at work that he himself always lacked, but admired, about his brother.

Past-Dean, on the other hand? No dice.

He looked less than thoughtful with his set jaw, muscles poised and tense; the bearings of a man who made up his mind, and all other opinions be damned. Something vulnerable flashed in those eyes, however—something Dean had noticed in them when he said the words "our mom", but it was overcome by a wave of concrete denial before he had the chance to decipher it.

'Hasselhoff' shook his head. "So what, you did your homework, congratu-friggin-lations. That proves jack squat."

God—_all_ versions of him were stubborn as hell.

"Here," Sam offered, closing the computer that rested on his lap. He had, no doubt, also noticed 'Sammy's' contemplative outlook on the situation, and recognized that he would be the smart one to target. If anyone could make Dean rethink his side of a fight, it was him. Sam continued to sit up, sliding his long legs over the side of the bed and reaching a hand inside his jacket. "I'll prove it."

All at once, like freakin' dominos, everything began to topple in rapid succession.

Young-Dean immediately trained the gun on Sam, his finger on the trigger. Sam quickly retracted his hands, cursing himself for not considering how his movement might be perceived as a threat in the intensity of the moment.

Dean stood up so quickly the entire Queen bed shifted with a groan of protest. He shoved his way between his past self and Sam, green eyes ablaze with fury. "Back off!"

Mistaking the movement as an attack, 2007-Dean tried to put a little distance between them to gain some leverage with his gun, but Dean was done with the kid gloves. Those came off the minute his younger version almost put a bullet in Sam.

Dean's arm shot out, knocking the weapon to the side and clearing them from its muzzle. Iron fingers wrapped around the base of the gun as he wrenched it at an odd angle, forcing his counterpart to choose between a broken hand or letting go. He went with the second option.

Dean avoided the retaliation that followed, sidestepping a right hook that tore through empty air, and in the blink of an eye, had control of the gun. It was pointed at his past self's head. His blood boiled with the rush of adrenaline, but also with something else…something darker, far less holy than instinct. In the back of his mind, Dean knew he'd have to calm down, or otherwise risk reviving his connection to the Mark. Maybe even bringing it to full power—and functionality—once again.

So instead of what he wanted to do, Dean settled for a glare. "Don't. You. Dare," he growled, voice low and dangerous. He tried his best to quell the anticipation of blood; tried to deny that his actions had awakened the longing.

_Breathe_.

The younger Dean Winchester stared blankly, features disbelieving. "Son of a…"

Dean ground his teeth together when he felt a warning pressure on his shoulder. He hadn't seen Sam move, hadn't even noticed Sam standing by his side until that moment—but not in the 'I-got-your-back' sort of way, he realized. No… Sam was there to stop him, if he needed to be stopped. The thought was sobering enough to pull him out of whatever residual haze he was in. Disgust welled like bile in his stomach.

He met Sam's eyes briefly, answering the unspoken question in them of _are you good? _with a stiff nod. Dean removed the magazine in one fluid movement, pocketing it. He tossed the gun, now useless, high in the air and caught it by the muzzle before offering it back to its rightful owner, grip-first.

"You are going to hear us out."

2007-Dean accepted the gun, slipped it back into the waistband of his jeans and reluctantly nodded. "So, talk."

Dean slipped a hand into his jacket's inner lining, attempting to finish what he believed Sam had started to, before crap hit the fan. He drew out his own personal switchblade, warily searching their faces for signs protest, but no one moved.

He held the weapon up in front of his past self. "Recognize this?"

In response, Freckles reached into his own jacket and pulled out the same, trusty switchblade he'd carry for the next seven years to come.

He was glaring now, but confused and ruffled enough to listen, which was more than they had to go on before.

"Not a shifter." Dean flipped out the silver blade and, careful to use his left forearm instead of his right, pulled away the sleeves to reveal unprotected skin. He was used to the bite and sting of what would come next. Blood dripped down from where he drew the blade across. He released a moderated breath through the nose, and breathed in again through his mouth, avoiding the thick scent of it. Dean's eyes followed the scarlet beads as they fell and stained the motel carpet beneath, then shifted back to his audience a few seconds later. "Satisfied?"

The battle between doubt and the acknowledgement of evidence was clear on Past-Dean's face. He stared hard at the bloody switchblade, squeezed the identical one hard in his palm, until he was certain there would be marks left behind from the force of the grip.

"If you're…" his face contorted like the words were sour in his mouth. It was clear he couldn't believe that he was actually going to say them. "If you're from the _future_, or whatever, then tell us something only we would know."

Good; now they were getting somewhere.

After wiping blood off the knife and replacing it in his jacket, Dean inched his flannel sleeve back over his forearm and allowed it to soak up the rest of the blood. The stinging sensation settled to a dull throb.

He watched Sam's eyes glaze with memory, only vaguely aware of the alternate Sam's narrowed, expectant eyes. "Dan Mitchell from Stanford gave you the cologne you're wearing. He was a dick, and you didn't even like it, but you wore it 'cause Jess liked the smell of cinnamon."

Dean meant to keep watching the younger brothers' faces to gauge their reaction, but Sam's admission took him off guard, and he turned. Burnt cinnamon. The smell that greeted him when they first woke in the motel. The scent he'd always resented, because it reminded him of everything Sam had—coffee, law books, college, smartass geek-nerds, a perfect, apple pie life— without him. Guilt stung more than the cut on his arm.

Sam never told him that before.

2007-Sam nodded approval to his own Dean, who had a variation of the same shock written on his face. Noting this, the younger brother pulled it together enough to respond with a small smile of his own. "Dan really was a dick."

After searching his brother's guarded face a moment longer, Dean became aware from the silence that it was his turn to spill.

Well. He'd been asked this question before, and the answer he gave then should work fine now.

"We were nineteen," Dean spoke up, looking himself in the eye. We were at Rhonda Hurley's one night. Remember her? She was a real…yeah. Well, anyway. She made us—"

Past-Dean's eyes widened when he remembered the rest of that story. "Yeah okay, you can stop right there, Lindsay Lohan!"

Sam wrinkled his nose in classic little-brother disgust. "We really don't want to know."

Dean smirked, unable to resist. "I'm embarrassing myself, aren't I."

He earned a glare from Freckles. "That is _so_ not funny."

"I think it is."

"Dick."

Dean opened his mouth to object, but, unable to make up a good defense, found himself shrugging. "That's fair."

"Look, we don't want to stick around," Sam cut in. "We just want to get back to our own year."

Leave it to Sam to bring them back to the point. In this case, however, Dean didn't mind as much.

"You're saying this was all just one hell of an accident?" The other Dean asked dubiously.

_Good question_, future Dean thought to himself, but only shrugged again. "I wish I could say we came from the future to stop the disaster of Sam's hair before it happens, but yeah. Pretty much."

Sam made a face. "Dude."

"Must've taken some serious mojo to bump you back to our page on the calendar." Freckles said, ignoring the jab and apprising the 'future boys' with open suspicion. Unease prickled beneath Dean's skin at that comment—and if _he_ felt uncomfortable about it, Sam would be feeling ten times worse, having opted to play it safe from the very beginning.

'Sammy', however, saved either one of them from having to answer. He was staring quizzically at Sam, those hazel eyes burning with a thousand questions—but the one he asked, Dean guessed, wasn't at the top of the list. "So you think _we_ can help you get back? How?"

"We don't really know for sure," Sam admitted, not bothering to hide the faint relief in his tone. He reached behind Dean's back for the nightstand closest to the door, picking up the newspaper they discovered earlier in the Impala—the one with sharpied indicators. "I thought maybe we could start with this."

2007-Dean took one look, then scowled. "You've been _in_ _my_ _car_?"

Dean yanked out his own set of Impala keys. "_My _car," he growled, before he remembered the half-eaten onion burgers, and turned livid. "And let me tell you something else about disrespecting Baby, while we're on the subject—"

"—Dean, come on." The Sam from his time looked as if he could've rolled his eyes. "Look, calm down, okay? We threw the burgers out already, just—"

"You _what_? I was saving those!"

"Dean," the youngest Sam in the room warned, elbowing him.

"What!"

"Dude, he's _you_."

"Doesn't mean I have to like him."

"God," Sam reached up to massage his temples, sitting back down on one of the Queens. "I knew you guys wouldn't get along."

"All right, everybody _shut up_!" Dean roared over the tumult of voices, earning startled looks from each Sam in turn, but only serving to piss off the alternate Dean even more.

"What, you gonna to make me, Marty Mcfly?" 2007-Dean asked, rounding on him. "Oh that's right, you can't. I'm you. Kill me and you go poof, is that it?"

Dean spoke through gritted teeth. "Look man, you really don't want to piss me off."

"He's right," Sam said quietly, before either Dean had a chance to continue. "Look, there are things you don't know yet"—_understatement of the year_—"and… you have to wait your turn to know them. But right now, you're going to have to trust us."

Silence fell.

Dean stared at his younger self, realizing just how bad of an idea it was to give him a tangible lookalike that he could physically hurt.

It was the strangest sensation, though… staring into a mirror of sorts, but a mirror that showed him who he used to be. Even accounting for all his time travel experiences (including the date with Zachariah), this trip won the grand prize for being most bizarre.

Dean Winchester had blood on his hands that never wash off, and this boy was him, before they were stained.

For the Dean of 2007, Azazel was the biggest bad. He had no concept of hell, except that his Dad had gone for him. He hadn't been tortured, been the torturer, hadn't seen the apocalypse, hadn't met angels or the devil, hadn't held his brother as the light faded from his hazel eyes. _If only you knew, _he wanted to say, yell, at the kid in front of him.

Dean realized he hated this reflection for the innocence he possessed—and for other things, too, most of which that this version of Dean had no control over. Crimes he hadn't committed yet... some things that wouldn't even happen for years.

Before anything had a chance to escalate, however, 2007-Sam started talking, saving them all yet again with his well-timed contributions.

"Todd Nueman," he said, loud enough to pull Dean out of his thoughtful haze. "Todd Neuman called us about this case. We were in Joliet, wrapping up a…job, and he called not long after."

His 2007-self withdrew somewhat, as if a nerve had been struck, and Dean's brows pulled together in confusion at the reaction. He had to think hard to remember—it was so long ago. Joliet, Illinois… the place sounded familiar, yeah, but that was the end of it. What was so bad in Joliet?

He shot a glance at Sam, who looked thankful for the interruption. "Todd was one of Dad's hunting buddies, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, the name rings a bell," Dean agreed, and Sam finally met his eyes. "He the guy from Missouri?"

"Minnesota," Past-Sam corrected. "Apparently they worked together a few times."

"Lay it on me. What did he say about the deaths at Rochester?" Dean pressed, copying Sam and sitting on the edge of the opposite bed. He hadn't noticed the weariness in his limbs until he no longer had to keep himself standing. This time-travel business was no walk in the park; all at once Dean felt like he'd gone five rounds with a cement wall, not to mention the addition of his stinging arm. "Have you talked to the families? Seen the bodies, anything?"

2007-Dean shook his head. "We just rolled into town a few hours ago, and then you guys waltzed in and crashed the party."

"Maybe you'll be glad we did," Sam thought aloud, and Dean knew why. He was still holding out for that golden, lightning-in-the-sky reason for being tossed back in time. _There has to be a reason_, Sam had said. A deeper meaning to it all.

Dean wanted to argue, to warn his brother against thinking like that, because sometimes there was no deeper meaning, no grand design—sometimes a mess was just a freaking mess— but bit his tongue. If he was ever going to figure out what was up with Sam, it wouldn't do him any favors to voice those doubts now.

When Dean turned back to the 2007 duo, he found his counterpart staring at him, hard. Scrutinizing every inch of his features, like he was looking for imperfections under a spotlight. Just when Dean was about to comment on the creep-factor, he spoke. "Hey, you—or, me. Whatever. Can I talk to you for a second?"

Dean exchanged one reluctant look with Sam, who nodded his agreement, before turning back to Freckles. "Yeah, sure, okay."

Sam drew 'Sammy' back into revealing more details about the hunt as the younger Dean turned, opened the motel door, and lead the way into the parking lot. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dean picked himself up off the bed with a grimace, and followed. He closed the door behind them.

It was dark out, now, and even colder than Dean remembered from his earlier excursion. Every warm exhale was visible in the frigid air, expanding and withering like smoke, and Dean's hands slipped into his jacket pockets to seek the warmth within.

Only one additional car turned up in the parking lot, aside from the few he recalled from before—a green Prius. His lip curled in distaste. Pushing the thoughts aside, however, he turned, catching Freckles staring again. The familiar, young green eyes dipped to Dean's chest, and back up once more.

Dean looked back curiously, even tried to follow his line of sight, but couldn't figure it out. Why would he— Oh.

Dean watched, suddenly numb as 2007-Dean pulled something from the neck of his shirt. Something he hadn't seen for… hell, five years.

"If you're me," he began, holding the amulet up as far as it would stretch from its place on his neck. "Why don't you have this?"

For the first time in a while, Dean couldn't meet his counterpart's eyes, not knowing how to answer. 2007-Dean quickly realized there wasn't going to be one.

"Fine, next question. What in the hell has enough juice for this kind of time jump? You look like you have a few theories."

Dean settled back gingerly against the wall of the motel, wincing when the rough flannel rubbed against his cut. Though he hadn't cut deep, he should really wrap it soon. "You're wrong, I don't. Whatever it was, it wiped our memories for good measure. Maybe we'll get them back and maybe we won't." It was partially true.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Freckles said, eyeing him with a look that suddenly made Dean feel like Sam was right, and all of this was a mistake after all. "Look I know you're keeping things from us—and if I was a betting man, I'd go with _dark_ things. Sam wants us to trust you? Well I don't. Absolutely not."

Dean only stared back. He set his jaw, forced himself to remain quiet.

"Do you know what freaks me out the most?" 2007-Dean pressed, stepping closer. "It's the way Sam looks at you, like..." he trailed off, searching for words. "…like he's _scared_ of you. I don't know what that's about, I don't know what you've done, but I sure as hell don't like it."

Dean physically recoiled, as if the words had burned him. He hadn't expected them, just like he didn't anticipate the white-hot anger that immediately flooded his system afterwards.

When the elder Winchester started talking, he didn't stop until he emptied every bit of fury into the words.

"Look, I'm only gonna say this once, so pay attention." He pushed off the wall, purposefully bumping into the younger version of himself to force him back, who was shorter than him by a few good inches. "You can talk all you want about Rochester Cemetery. You can talk about the case. Hell, you can get wasted and sing karaoke, for all I care. But anything beyond that? Don't even go there. 'Cause I won't give a rat's ass about what you think until you've lived through what I've lived through, and probably not even then. Keep your nose_ in your own damn time_."

Without giving the other a chance to respond, Dean shoved past, both forearms burning as he made his way back into the motel.

* * *

**A/n****: **Did I lose anyone back there? Was this way too hard to follow? If you have a second, feedback is always very appreciated! :) Thank you for reading! Really. You're all wonderful. Till chapter 4~


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